


Bad Little Boys

by Heavenlea6292



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst, Child Abuse, Count On Me Backstory, Explicit Child Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gen, Hurt Sam, Implied Sexual Abuse, John Winchester's Shitty Parenting, Non-Neurotypical Sam Winchester, no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2018637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlea6292/pseuds/Heavenlea6292
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>((backstory oneshot from Count On Me. This specific incident was mentioned in Chapter 36.))</p><p>“And what happens to boys who don’t listen? What happens to bad little boys?” John asked.<br/>“They g-g-get puh-puh-punished,” Sam cried loudly, “I be good, pwomise!”<br/>“You had a chance to be good, and you weren’t. You were bad. And bad boys get punished.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Little Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Count On Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361707) by [Heavenlea6292](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlea6292/pseuds/Heavenlea6292). 



Sam sat quietly on the floor, playing with his Meeno as his father sat on the couch, staring listlessly at the TV, a beer in hand. He was whispering softly to the stuffed rabbit, letting out a little giggle every now and again as he made the rabbit fly, humming the Superman theme song. Dean went away for the day, like he started doing a long time ago, and Sammy hated it. He was lonely and scared and hungry because Daddy never made his food right and he wanted to drink out of his bottles instead of playing. And what was worse, he never put anything good on the TV when he watched. It was always just boring news or lots of grunting naked ladies and men.  

He just focused on his Meeno’s newest adventure, flying to the top of the armchair mountain and rescuing the green army man who was trapped at the top. He was focused so intently on his game that he didn’t even notice that the grunting naked people had gone away. His head jerked up as a loud advertisement came on the TV.  
“Get her what she really wants this Mother’s Day!” the announcer said, drawing his curiosity.

Sam stared at the screen, his head cocked to the side as images of beautiful women cuddling their children and kissing beautiful men filled the screen, making him curious. Where was his mommy? There was no lady who kissed and cuddled him and Dean. He remembered that Dean said Mommy was at Heaven, but he never said when she was coming back.

“Daddy,” he said, “Daddy, where’s Mommy?” he asked quietly, scooting closer to his leg. John sighed, rubbing his face. Sam scooted back, knowing that when his Daddy made that noise, he was gonna get mad soon.  
“Your mother is dead,” John said, his tone flat. Sam bit his lip, hugging Meeno hard.  Dean told him about dead. Dead was when people went away forever, and you can’t go see them. Like the girl who watched them a long time ago. She went away and never came back and Daddy told them that she was dead and Dean cried.  
“Dead’s when people go away an don come back,” Sam whispered to his Meeno, his lip quivering hard, “I wan Dee.”  
“Dean’s at school,” John snapped, getting up off the couch and stomping over to the small kitchenette, pulling out another beer. Sammy got up, dragging the rabbit along the ground as he followed his father.  
“What’s schoow?” Sam asked.  
“School,” John corrected, “School, with an L. It’s where kids go to learn how to read and stuff like that,” John replied, “He’ll be home in a few hours.”  
“I wanna go to schoow,” Sam whined, playing with the rabbit’s ears, “I wanna be wif Dee.”  
“You can’t be with him all the time, Sam,” John snapped, “Go play.”  
“You wanna pway, Daddy?” Sammy asked, holding up Meeno, “You can make Meeno fly real high! Pwease?”  
John took the rabbit, looking down at it with irritation.  
“Where did you get this thing, Sam?” he demanded. Sam jumped, rocking on his feet and hugging himself.  
“Dee got it for my birfday,” Sam whispered. John rolled his eyes, dropping the rabbit to the floor.  
“I don’t have time for this,” he grunted, “I have work to do.” Sam followed him over to the table, picking up his crayons and scribbling on the newspaper as John researched. 

“Wook Daddy,” Sam said proudly, holding it up, “I’m doin wike you!” John sighed, ignoring him as he continued his work.  
“Daddy, wanna see?” he asked again. John glared over at him.  
“Make the L sound,” he said impatiently, “Ehlllll.”  
“Ehwww,” Sam repeated.  
“No,” John snapped, “Watch my mouth. Ehllll.”  Sam flushed hard, starting to rock. He couldn’t make that sound, not the _Ehl_ sound or the _Ar_ sound. When he said it, it sounded like the _Wuh_ sound.  
“Ehww,” Sammy whispered, his rocking getting harder. He was bad because he wasn’t making the sounds like his Daddy wanted him to.  
“You’re hopeless,” John mumbled to himself, “Go back to coloring.”

Sam got the hint, sinking back into the chair and coloring quietly on the newspaper, counting under his breath nervously as he rocked gently, sniffling. John rolled his eyes in irritation, getting up with a sigh.

“I’m gonna go outside,” John said, “I gotta get something out of the car. Stay put,” he commanded. Sam nodded, watching as his father left. He knew his Daddy was mad because he was bad and couldn’t make the sounds like a big boy. He got a bright idea, hopping down off his chair and into his father’s, finding a blank page in John’s book. He wanted to draw him a picture to make him happy, like his pictures made Dean happy. Maybe, if he made his Daddy a picture, he wouldn’t be mad about Sammy not being able to make the sounds. Soon, he lost himself in his scribbling that he didn’t even notice his father come back in.

“Son of a bitch!” John bellowed, grabbing Sam by his hair and tossing him off the chair. Sam started crying loudly, holding his head. He didn’t know what he did bad, but it must’ve been really, really bad. John grabbed his journal, whipping it at Sam and hitting his shoulder, making Sam let out a loud cry.  
“What the fuck did I tell you?” John yelled, towering over the little 4 year old, “What the fuck did I tell you?”

Sammy didn’t reply, crying loudly and rocking, his hands pressed against his ears. It was too loud, and his ears hurt as bad as his head and his arm. John grabbed the top of Sam’s hair again, yelling in his face. Sam tried to get up to ease the pulling on his hair, but he stumbled, making the pulling worse as he cried.  
“I told you to never fucking touch that!” John yelled, picking up the journal and smacking Sam’s head with it, “Why the fuck did you touch it?” he smacked him again, “Huh? Fucking answer me!” He hit Sam a third time with the journal, making Sam’s whole body jerk from the force.  
“S-s-s-sowee!” Sammy wailed, stuttering hard, “I wa-wa-wanna…make a pi-pictuwe…”  
“You know what I want, boy?” he yelled, shaking Sam’s head hard by his hair, “I want you to fucking listen to me!”  
“I wisten! I wisten, I sowee!” Sam wailed, trying to get away.  John pulled him to his feet, grabbing his chin hard.  
“Look at me!” he bellowed, making Sam rock on his feet, pressing his hands against his ears again.  
“What did I tell you not to do?” John demanded, yanking Sam’s hands away from his head, “Answer me.”  
“Y-y-you s-s-s-said…n-no tou-uh-uh-chin youw bo-bo-book…b-but…”

John picked up the journal again, whacking him on across the face with it.  
“I didn’t ask you for ‘but’, boy,” John said, “I asked you what I told you, and that was not to touch this journal. And you did it anyways.”  
“S-s-sow-“  
John smacked him again, shaking the journal under his nose.  
“And what happens to boys who don’t listen? What happens to bad little boys?” John asked.  
“They g-g-get puh-puh-punished,” Sam cried loudly, “I be good, pwomise!”  
“You had a chance to be good, and you weren’t. You were bad. And bad boys get punished.”

Sammy looked up at his father, completely terrified. He didn’t want to be punished. It made him scream and cry because it hurt and it made him scared, and when Dean wasn’t there, the punishments were always really bad. Ever since his father had hit him across the face when he was counting, he’d gotten a lot rougher with him, like he was with Dean. But only when Dean was at school did he get as mad as he was now.  
 Sammy did the only thing he could think of.

He ran.

He was off like a shot, scrambling underneath the bed, where he thought his father would be too big to get him. But John had his hand clamped around his ankle and drug him out, even as Sam’s little hands scrabbled at the carpet. He curled up in the smallest ball possible as John swung the journal angrily.  
“I said to never fucking touch this!” he bellowed, punctuating each word with an almighty swing of his hand with the book, “And you fucking…scribbled…all over my research!”  
“No Daddy, no!” Sam wailed, trying to crawl away, “No!”  John simply moved forward, still swinging.  
“You wanna touch my journal? Here, now you get to fucking touch it.”  
Sam cried wordlessly, his arms around his head and his knees curled into his chest, unaware that the journal was what tipped him over the edge- he was already angry about Sam asking about his mother, about Sam’s inability to say words right, about his incessant counting. John gritted his teeth as Sammy started to crawl away again, tossing the journal aside and using his hands.  
“You don’t ask about her, you understand?” John yelled, his hand open as his palm slapped any part of Sam’s body that it could, making Sam howl even louder, “You don’t talk about her, you understand me boy?” His hand lashed down over Sam’s ear, making him screech as his whole body trembled.  John hauled Sam, still crying loudly and now dry-heaving to his feet, looking at his son’s red face.

“That’s enough, Sam,” he said harshly, “I didn’t mean to hit your ear, but you wouldn’t stop squirming.”  
Sam didn’t reply, still crying hard as his dry heaving changed to gagging, unsteady on his feet.  
“Sam?” John said, his tone softening for the first time. Sammy didn’t look so good. He looked like he was having trouble breathing, his face going pale where red marks weren’t spread out.  
“Daddy,” Sam choked out, before throwing up.  
“Oh for god’s sake,” John groaned, picking Sammy’s still crying and gagging body up and carrying him at arm’s length into the bathroom. He had barely managed to set Sam down on his feet before he was gagging and puking again, making John’s blood boil. He didn’t hit him that hard. The kid was just puking out of defiance.  
He reached over, turning on the cold water faucet full blast as Sam continued to sob and heave, tearing his shirt over his head and stripping him down to his underwear. He picked up Sam again and plopped him down into the cold water, straightening up.

“Don’t get out of that tub until you’re completely cleaned up, you understand me?”  John demanded. Sammy nodded, still trying to calm down and stop his gagging, rocking back and forth in the water. John sighed, closing the door and returning to his work.

* * *

 

“Dad…”

John opened his eyes to see Dean staring at him, a very concerned look on his face.  
“What, Dean?” John demanded, rubbing his face. He glanced at the clock, swearing under his breath- he’d fallen asleep. Hunting at night and staying awake during the day to research and take care of his youngest was starting to get to him.  
“Where’s Sammy?” Dean asked, biting his lip.  
“In the bath,” John replied, “He got sick, so he was cleaning himself up.”  
“Sammy’s sick?” Dean cried, dropping all of his things and running straight into the bathroom. He threw open the door to see Sammy sitting in the bathtub in his underwear, shivering as bruises crossed his face and body, looking scared.  
“D-d-dee,” he stuttered, starting to cry as his arms reached out for his big brother, “C-c-cold-d-d.”

Dean grabbed a towel off the rock, throwing it around him and dragging him out of the tub. Dean hugged him hard, rubbing his cold skin as hard as he could to warm him up.  
“Why didn’t you get out of the bath?” Dean demanded.  
“D-d-daddy sa-said n-n-no getting out bef-f-fore I was cwean,” Sammy stuttered, “B-b-but you gimme my baths.”  
Dean pressed his head against Sammy’s touching one of the bruises on his arm gently.  
“What happened?”  
“Daddy got m-m-mad cause I was bad.”

Dean bit his lip, picking Sammy up and carrying him into the main room. He set him down on the bed, scrubbing at his head with the towel before pulling on of his too-big shirts over Sammy’s head. Sammy’s little body swam in it, but it warmed him up enough for Dean to tuck him into bed. As soon as Sam was asleep, however, Dean marched over to where his father was sitting, his arms folded.

“Sammy can’t take baths on his own, he’s too little,” Dean said with all the harshness his little 8 year old self could muster.  
“He’s old enough to take his own baths,” John replied, not looking up from his journal.  
“How come you hit him?” Dean demanded.  
“He scribbled in my journal when I told him not to touch it,” John replied quietly, a sense of guilt washing over him for the first time. He’d opened the journal back up, prepared to try and read what he had written so that he could re-write it, but the page was pristine. In fact, it wasn’t until he got to the back of the thing that he found the pages Sam had scribbled on.  
“He’s a baby!” Dean whispered angrily.    
He looked over to see the way Dean was glaring at him, feeling the guilt ebb away. He disciplined his child- no worse than him disciplining Dean. And Sam knew he wasn’t allowed to touch the journal. But then again- John knew that wasn’t true. The journal was the straw that broke the camel’s back- Sam was the problem child, and he asked too many questions. Questions like where his mother was.  
“He’ll be fine,” John grunted, “A couple of bruises ain’t gonna hurt him.”

Suddenly, Dean was climbing into his lap, and hugging him. He started to cry, but he stopped himself, steeling his resolve.    
“If you promise not to hit Sammy anymore…I’ll do what you want me to do…at night.”


End file.
